


Healing

by polikuj



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Not Epilogue Compliant, Original Character(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-07-07 21:18:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15916437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polikuj/pseuds/polikuj
Summary: Harry is acting very strangely. Hermione suspects that he may be suffering from mental illness, an issue that the Wizarding World does not know a lot about. When a crisis sends Harry to St. Mungo's, he discovers that Draco Malfoy is already there!(Ratings and tags may change as story progresses)





	1. Snake Charmer

**Author's Note:**

> HP & all characters belong to J.K. Rowling and Warner Bros, I own no rights.
> 
> As someone who struggles with mental health issues, this fic is very near to my heart. Please remember that not all mental health issues, even those with the same diagnosis, looks the same! Harry's particular type of issues are his alone, although, I definitely find some similarities in my own struggles

**Chapter 1:**

**Snake Charmer**

 

" _Alohomora_." came the tired voice of Ronald Weasley as he reached the door of his shared apartment.

Reeling at the exhausting, ridiculous events of the night (involving heirloom tea kettles, a mother and son throwing hexes back and forth, a jelly-leg’d partner, and something about the muggle lottery), he opened the door. He was confused when he saw Harry, wide awake, eating pumpkin pasties with an open book on his lap, taking down notes ravenously. Harry, startled by the noise, looked up from his book and peered at him over the round frames of his glasses.

"Mornin'." Harry mumbled, looking back down at his book, after realizing it was only his roommate. Ron looked at his best friend curiously.

"You're up early." Ron remarked, dropping his bag on the side table. "It's not even light out."

As if suddenly realizing that Ron was interested in conversation, Harry looked up from his book and perked up noticeably. He put his book, _Reptiles of the European Continent_ , on the coffee table and shot up.

" _Early_!" He said, throwing the term out there as if Ron was being ridiculous. "If we all started getting up at this time, we would get so much more done. I've already eaten breakfast, been on a morning jog-- went by the park today. Saw a corn snake! They are quite nervous creatures those. The one I'd spoken to had just laid eggs and was talking all about how her children may die if she isn’t with them, which I suppose is true, but--"

"Wait--" Ron interjected. "How long have you been awake?"

"Oh, dunno. Haven't really slept, but that's beside the point! I've gotten so much accomplished! Thinking about getting a quidditch game in as well, would you be up for throwing around a quaffle? I mean, Weasley is the King, you know! With quidditch skills, they say, if you don't use them, you lose them--"

"Are you mad?" Ron asked, looking perturbed. "It's bloody 4 am! No, I do not want to play quidditch, I just want to go to sleep. You should, too seeing as we both have to be at work in a few hours."

Harry, undisturbed by Ron's rejection of his quidditch proposal, started walking towards the hallway closet in search of his broomstick.

"Oh, I'm not going to work tomorrow." Harry stated flatly, as if talking about the weather. He tossed out a broom-- a regular, unenchanted cleaning broom, a pair of old shoes, a bottle of firewhiskey and a dust pan.

"I know you haven't slept," Ron said, grabbing the water pitcher from the refrigerator. He poured himself a glass. "But you can't just skip out on work that way. You're liable to get fired."

Harry, buried under a pile of items he pulled from the closet, responded nonchalantly, "Oh no, I've already quit, this morning-- or yesterday, dunno, depends how you look at it."

Ron nearly choked on the sip of water he'd taken.

Harry grabbed his Firebolt and cried out triumphantly. "Found it!" He climbed over the pile of items in the hallway, clutching the broom between his hands.

"Harry!" Ron said, clearly alarmed. "Why'd you go and do that?"

Harry looked over at him. "Sorry, what?"

"Quit your job!" Ron exclaimed.

"Oh," Harry replied, undeterred. "I've got better plans!"

"Better plans than employment?"

"Well," Harry said, grinning. "I've decided that I'm going to work at a snake sanctuary!"

"A... what?" Ron gaped at him.

"Well, I figure, I'm a parseltongue. I have a unique gift and I want to use it! Plus, I'd been getting stuffy in that office with Pryor and his passive-aggressive nonsense.”

"You _love_ Pryor!" Ron nearly squeaked, completely baffled. Harry's Auror partner, Evan Pryor, had been his fourth partner in two years. But Harry had been singing his praises last week!

"But snakes aren't passive aggressive! Well, most of them, anyway. You wouldn't believe about adders. _Vipera Berus_. Passive aggressive as they come. Will give you the cold shoulder-- well, cold scale, I suppose, since snakes don't have shoulders-- anyway, they'll completely ignore you if you've said even one thing. sensitive prats. But still better than Pryor! Nothing against the guy personally, but--"

"Harry." Ron breathed. Harry either didn't hear him or pretended not to. He continued talking about snakes, grabbing the book he had left on the coffee table and reading excerpts out loud to Ron for emphasis.

"Mate, you need some sleep. I need some sleep. Maybe this will make more sense in the morning and you can call the ministry and--"

"I'm not going back!" Harry snapped. "And if you think I'm an idiot, you're wrong. Snakes need people like me! I can't even believe you won't listen to me, to my passions and my dreams! Some best friend you are!"

With that, Harry gathered his broomstick, walked through the front door and slammed it behind him, leaving a gaping Ron in his wake.

Shortly after, as Ron lay in bed desperately trying to fall asleep, thought that it must be a full moon or something and cursed himself for thinking that a teapot had been the strangest part of his day.

 

\---

 

Hermione jogged into the Leaky Cauldron, looking down at her watch, panicked. She calmed when she saw Ron at a table, mouth full of sandwich.

"I'm so sorry for being late!" she said as she reached the table. He looked up from his food.

"S'ok." he replied, mouth full. Hermione took a seat, still dressed in her healer uniform.  A patient had held her up significantly when he came in vomiting caterpillars. She had thought fondly of when Ron had vomited slugs in their third year and when she'd realized she was remembering slugs fondly, nearly laughed out loud.

"You won't believe the day I've had." she declared as she took a seat.

"I bet you I can beat it." Ron said, putting his sandwich down. Now, Hermione knew she was in for a story. It took a lot for Ron to put a sandwich down.

"Stranger than someone vomiting caterpillars?"

"Harry quit his job."

"He what?" Hermione asked, surprised.

"Yeah. Wants to be a snake charmer or work at a snake sanctuary or some bollocks like that. "

"He didn't say why?" Hermione asked. She flagged down the waiter who took her order. "Just out of the blue?"

"He said that he wants to use his gift of being a parseltongue to good use. And something about not being able to stand Pryor."

"He loves Pryor!" exclaimed Hermione. Harry had spent nearly an hour straight talking about how great Pryor was, to the point where she had thought Harry fancied him.

"That's what I said!" Ron replied. "But he kept going on and on about snakes, barely even taking a breath."

"Since when has he even liked snakes?" Hermione thought out loud. Harry had never even mentioned anything about snakes or even used parseltongue outside of their experiences at Hogwarts.

"Dunno, but he did the same thing a few months back when he wanted to become a Curse Breaker, remember?"

"How could I forget? He nearly bought out Flourish and Botts of all the curse breaking books they had." Hermione stated. "Honestly rivaled even me. I was pretty impressed, if I'm being honest."

"I think he's been cursed himself." Ron said flatly.

Hermione bit her lip, thinking, before she replied. "I can't think of any curses, or any spells at all that would cause such manic behavior..." Her voice trailed off as if she had said something that answered her own question.

Ron frowned. He stared at his half-eaten sandwich sullenly, suddenly having lost his appetite. "I just want Harry to be okay."

Hermione shared a look with him and reached her hand across the table to hold his. "Me too, Ron. Me too."

 

\--

 

As Hermione took care of the bill for lunch, she peered through the window of the Leaky Cauldron. In her vision was a more-disheveled-than-usual mop of jet black hair carrying a large box.

“It’s Harry!” She said, getting up from her seat and grabbing her coat in one fell swoop. She scrambled to be able to reach him before he was out of eyeshot.

“Speak of the devil.” remarked Ron, collecting himself to follow her.

“Harry!” Hermione called, as they exited the pub. He turned to look at her.

“Hermione!” he said brightly. “What a nice surprise.”

Hermione smiled at his reaction.  The way he greeted her was encouraging. He was happy to see her.

“Likewise! We were just having lunch. What’ve you been up to today?”

“Well,” Harry said excitedly. “I’ve come to a lot of conclusions about my life and my passions and said, well, today is a better day than any to get things started! I’m going to work with snakes, Hermione!”

“That’s…” Hermione said, forcing a smile.  “Wonderful, Harry. You seem absolutely chuffed about it.”

“Oh, I am, it’s so freeing!” He said, placing the box in his hands at his feet. “In fact, today I ordered a snake tank from the Magical Menagerie and bought out their entire snake population! They had an impressive variety! Picked up _Elaphe quatuorlineata_ and _Pantherophis guttatus_ and loads of others—couple of venomous ones, too, but honestly, they’re just so misunderstood—”

“You what?” Ron sputtered, paling. “You got snakes?”

Harry looked at him irritably. “Yes, Ron. Saving them doesn’t start at a sanctuary. They don’t belong in shops like that! You should hear how they call out. I have to free them!”

Hermione stared at Harry incredulously. No, this was not normal for Harry. There was definitely something else going on.

“Are they…” Ron gulped. “In there?” He pointed at the box at Harry’s feet.

“Oh!” Harry said excitedly, “Yeah, look!” Without warning, he opened the box and a snake with a brown and black pattern peeked out, hissing.

“Harry!” Hermione yelled. “You can’t open that here!”

Harry shrugged. “Honestly, they shouldn’t have been captive in the first place. Diagon Alley is still not great, of course, but it’s better than being inside of the Magical—”

“Put. Them. Away.” Hermione exclaimed sternly. Harry scowled, closing the top of the box.

“You obviously don’t see the importance of what I’m doing.” He grabbed the box and glared at them. “I expected more from my best friends.”

He turned on his heel and walked towards the closest Floo location, leaving a very confused and bewildered Ron and Hermione in his wake.


	2. Mind Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry goes to St. Mungos. Draco is already there.
> 
> C/W: Suicide attempt, Suicidal ideation, Abuse mention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have this entire fic planned out, but I have a feeling this is going to be pretty dark-- this is based a lot on my experiences (mostly poor, unfortunately) in inpatient settings. Hopefully it resonates with you all! Open to suggestions for what ya'll would like to see happen!
> 
> Also, sorry that it's been slow goings updating. I just got promoted at work (woo!) but it means a lot more responsibility.

Hermione chewed on the end of her quill as she flipped the page. She was supposed to be researching the next phase of a non-addictive Sleepless Draught, but instead she had “DSM-V,” open and annotated on her desk.

“Healer Granger?” Hermione looked up, concentration broken for the moment. She met the gaze of her assistant, Morgan Wyatt. She peered at Hermione with concern.

“Yes, Morgan?” Hermione said, perhaps with more bite than she had intended.

“I don’t mean to bother,” Rose said quietly. “But it’s just that it’s past eleven. I thought you were leaving at eight tonight.”

Hermione sighed. Her shift _had_ ended at eight o’clock, yet she was here combing through every healing tome to find out what was happening with Harry. “You’re absolutely right.” She admitted. “I’m just working on something for a friend.”

Morgan nodded. “I understand. It’s hard when it’s someone you love.”

_And even harder when it’s the Boy Who Lived._ thought Hermione, who only nodded. Morgan rustled through her bag and found a pack of treacle tarts to offer to Hermione. In the process, a muggle prescription bottle fell out of her bag. They both reached down, Hermione picking up the small white bottle and handing it back to Morgan.

“Sorry!” Morgan said hurriedly, a blush rising on her cheeks.

“No need to apologize,” Hermione paused for a moment and began kindly, “I wasn’t aware that you were taking muggle medication.”

Morgan nodded. “Yes, there are some types of things the wizarding world simply hasn’t caught up with yet.” she frowned. “One of them being my depression.”

“I’m so sorry you struggle with that.” Hermione said genuinely.

“S’okay.” Morgan mumbled, then added thoughtfully, “It’s actually quite well managed with my medication.”

“There’s no wizard equivalent? A potion or anything?” Hermione asked, although she had a sinking feeling she already knew the answer.

Morgan shrugged. “Some things for symptoms, but nothing to address it at large.” She paused, looking down. “Anyway, I’m sorry to’ve disturbed you… and now, look at me, spilling my guts!”

Hermione grabbed a chair near the side of her desk and pulled it over, patting on it gently. “I don’t mind at all. Why don’t you have a seat?”

 

\--

 

“I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it sooner.” Hermione said, laying out on the couch. She stared at the image of Ron’s face in her fire place. “When I think about it more, it makes sense.”

“Dunno,” Ron replied flatly. “I just hope you’ve figured out whatever’s going on with him.”

“Well,” Hermione explained. “I’ve done a lot of reading in muggle books—”

“Muggle books? Why would they know about mind healing?” Ron asked.

“Because, _Ronald_ , contrary to popular belief, muggles are not an inferior race that barely survives without magic.” She snapped, and Ron caught himself. “Issues arise and they have to address them. Except they use science instead of magic. In the muggle world, it isn’t even called mind healing, it’s called psychiatry.”

Ron looked at her sheepishly. “Sorry, ‘Mione. I only mean, why haven’t heard anything about 'psychic trees'?”

“It's 'psychiatry.' And you have,” proffered Hermione. “Just not in any meaningful way. Consider how many people in the wizarding world are known by the moniker ‘mad’ and it’s simply accepted. Like the Longbottoms.”

“But that was a curse. We could just find out what the curse is _doing_ and fix _that_.” Argued Ron.

“But that's the thing, Ron. What if it's not a curse? What if there is no 'that' to fix? No mechanism to stop? Think about it-- consider the mental states of people like the Gaunts? Elphias Doge?”

“But that’s just getting old. Peoples’ brains always get a bit dodgy with age.”

“But that’s precisely my point,” contended Hermione. “Why? Why can’t magic cure that, even if the cause is old age? I think that issues with mental health are— as you have so eloquently shown— seen as a ‘muggle’ problem. And as much as the wizarding world talks about how tolerant it is now, it still distances itself from what it considers to not be a problem that affects wizards.

“The only issue,” she continued. “Is that is obviously does. I think the real problem is that magic doesn’t operate that way. Or that magic can alter mood and affect but only temporarily. It can’t sustain, can’t create serotonin or stabilize moods.”

“Sero-what?” asked Ron confusedly.

“Not important. My point is that any attempt to address mind healing has been fleeting. Sustainable, mood-altering attempts have only been disastrous. Even creating immortality came at a cost-- losing one’s soul, which is not a side effect anyone wants. But even the people who search for things like immortality—I’m sure Tom Riddle had some unaddressed mental illness—”

“Are you comparing Harry to Voldemort?” balked Ron.

“No, _Ronald_ , what I'm saying is that it makes sense that any mental health issue Harry may have has gone unnoticed. The Wizarding World doesn’t know much about mind healing and it is clearly still very stigmatized.”

Ron took a moment to take in what his girlfriend had said. Then he shrugged, saying, “I still think it’s a curse.”

Hermione sighed exasperatedly and rolled her eyes. “You are insufferable.”   


\--

 

Harry’s room was completely dark. He laid in a tangle of comforters, grasping a stray pillow as if it could heat his insides. Everything about him felt so cold, so empty. When he awoke this morning—if you could even call it morning since it was past 1 o’clock in the afternoon—he could barely bring himself to the bathroom. The only peace he found was in his bed, and even then it was fleeting. He wanted it to swallow him whole so the ache inside of him would stop.

It made sense if he really thought about it. He had been through so much. So much he hadn’t even asked for. No eleven-year-old wants to be the Savior of the Wizarding World. It was a lot to ask of anyone, especially a child. He thought about all the world wanted of him, all it asked him to do. But what did he want? No one had ever asked him that.

What he wanted was to disappear. He didn’t want anyone to come up to him and ask for his autograph. Didn’t want a Witch Weekly article on any perceived love interest. He just wanted to disappear out of the world. Just gone. A spectre.

He pondered that the only people who truly mattered to him, whom he would consider family were Hermione and Ron. Would they really even miss him if he disappeared? Honestly, they had each other, great careers. They were happy. Harry was like a dementor, sucking the happiness out of their lives.

In truth, they were probably better without him. Harry couldn’t even bring himself to be upset about that fact. As long as he’d been around them, he’d only ever gotten them into trouble. He’d only ever made their lives more difficult, complicated and dangerous. What kind of best friend was he?

Harry turned over and realized that his pillow was wet. When had he even started crying? He was too exhausted to even examine this phenomenon. Instead, he reached over to his nightstand, grabbed another vial of Dreamless Sleep and melted back into slumber.

 

\--

 

“Harry?” Hermione called into the dark room. She stepped over a pile of clothing on the floor to turn on a lamp. She turned to Ron, who stared from the doorway, clearly worried. He bit his lip.

“How long has he been asleep?” Hermione asked, inspecting her best friend’s sleeping form.

“I haven’t seen him awake in the last four days.” Ron said nervously. “When I leave for work, he’s asleep and when I get home, he’s asleep.”

Hermione peered at the untouched food on his bedside table. Dust was starting to accumulate on the tightly drawn shades. Harry lay on the bed, looking more statue than human. Hermione pressed her fingers against his wrist. Her heart started beating rapidly.

“Ron, when is the last time you came in here to check on him!?” she shouted, panicked.

“I… I mean, I’ve been swamped at work, and, dunno if you’ve noticed, but I’ve had to deal with all these snakes he brought into the apartment!” Ron said defensively. “I don’t always have time to come and check—”

“Ron, he barely has a pulse!” Hermione yelled. “Quick, help me get him to the fireplace!”

Ron paled and pulled his best friend up and slipped him up onto his shoulder. Hermione bolted towards the fireplace. She shoved floo powder into Ron’s open palm. “I will meet you at St. Mungo’s. Go _now_.”

Ron nodded gravely before yelling, “St. Mungo’s!” and disappearing with Harry in a flash of green flames.

 

\--

 

Narcissa ran a loving hand through her son’s hair. He stared off idly, twining his hands in a piece of sting one of the healers had given him. He twirled it around his fingers, pulled tightly and watched as his hand began to turn crimson, then a deep shade of purple-violet before unraveling the string again.

“You’ll be out of here soon.” Narcissa said to him gently, tucking a loose stray of hair behind his ear. He wondered idly if they had different definitions of the word ‘soon.’ Draco had stopped counting the days he had been inside the stark, white, dingy mind healing ward at St. Mungo’s out of apathy. It simply did not matter.

“Your father has been in communications with the Head Healer and the chief of the—of the department. You’ll be home with us so, so soon.”

_Mind Healing Department_. He thought to himself. She never wanted to say it out loud. To admit that Draco was not the prodigal son she had hoped for. To admit that he was broken in a way that no one knew how to heal.

He unraveled string from his middle finger and stared at the hulking frame of his father walking towards them. What was it, even that he would be going home to? His father, ruling the house with an iron fist? Whispering a _Crucio_ so quietly that the guests wouldn’t be able to hear? Vanishing any marks he left?

His father had been exonerated for his war crimes, for doing what he ‘deemed necessary as a means for survival,’ or so the Wizengamot had decided. Thirteen months of probation, working in the ministry on the testimony of Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.

As his father approached, he felt the chill of his icy blue eyes bore into his skull. He rewrapped the red string again, doubling it around his ring finger to make the numb feeling come back faster. He wished he could feel that same numbness everywhere.

“Narcissa,” Lucius reprimanded. “You’re coddling the boy.”

Narcissa scowled. “What he needs is support, Lucius.” She defended.

“What he needs is proper representation and a several hundred galleon donation to St. Mungo’s,” Lucius said crossly. “Which will mean that we will likely be unable to get the chateâu in Chenonceaux that you so had your heart set on—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Narcissa replied idly, pulling a knit blanket around Draco. He hated that blanket. It made him itch. “Surely we have enough to get Draco out of this wretched place and fund the offer we already put on the chateâu. I don’t even see why those things are related.”

“It seems that being on the—” he paused, looking for the right word. “ _vilified_ side of history has consequences.”

“But what about—” Narcissa started.

“We are not having this conversation here.” Lucius said sternly as if admonishing a small child. His eyes sparkled malevolently. Tears welled up in her eyes.

“This is all your fault!” She yelled, getting up to leave. “Putting us in danger, this family in danger—”

“It is time for you to go,” Lucius said, unaffected. “This has clearly been quite stressful for you.”

“You are the source of stress! You are the reason our son is in this place! You are responsible for the ruin of our family—”

The sound of Lucius’s hand against Narcissa’s face reverberated throughout the room. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Draco didn’t flinch.

“You will wait outside.” He said simply. Narcissa grabbed her purse from the edge of Draco’s bed and marched out of the room, the echo of her high heels filling the room.

Draco had not moved his eyes from the string in his hands, looping it through a coil he’d made near his thumbnail. Lucius grabbed Draco’s face, forcing him to make eye contact with his father.

"You should consider yourself exceedingly lucky,” Lucius drawled. “That you are here or you would severely regret making your mother cry with these antics.”

Draco’s impassive expression did not change.

“Once I have settled things with the hospital,” he said, releasing Draco and brushing a piece of lint idly off his robes, “You will be back home where you belong.”

_Home._ Draco thought. _What a strange word._

“And we shall put this all behind us.” Lucius walked to the door, not looking back. “Do not disappoint me.”

Draco frowned at the knot he had made in his string, rolling it around between his thumb and his index finger. It matched the one in his stomach as he watched his father disappear through the door of his room.

\---

Draco shot up on the lumpy twin mattress of the medical bed. His heart raced, sweat drenching his oversized t-shirt. The last image he had before waking was Albus Dumbledore’s blue, twinkling eyes. He put his face in his hands, exhaling. He had never liked the old coot, but he hadn’t deserved to die. None of them had deserved it. There had been so much death, on both sides.

He surreptitiously lifted the knitted blanket off his bed and slid on his slippers from underneath the bed. He looked towards the window of his room. Following the faint cast of light from the hallway, he turned the knob to exit the room. He crossed the corridor towards the bathroom, nodding at the night healer on his way. It was his favorite night healer, Jay, who was always good for a conversation and an extra pumpkin pasty.

Draco pushed the door open into the bathroom. There were no locks here; not even on the bathroom. Draco had found out why the first night that he was there. One of the other patients—he hadn’t even met them yet—had pried apart the hand towel receptacle and used the sharp bit to try to off themself.

Draco would never be so _vulgar._ Perhaps a potion or spell, something quick and painless. He considered this as he flushed the toilet and went to wash his hands. Well, he had almost died when Potter had landed that _Sectumsempra_ on him. Would that really have been so bad?

He walked back towards his room and paused as he looked at the door. There must have been some mistake. There was his name card and another, blank name card sitting next to his, waiting to be filled in, as his did when he first entered. No one had told him about this. He had never had a roommate before. What if his roommate was crazier than he was? A compulsive thief? Violent? Or worse, sociable? Draco was utterly unprepared, and more so, downright opposed to the idea of a roommate.

He stomped in and glared in the direction of the lightly snoring lump in the bed next to him. When had this even happened? This wasn’t fair! Who did he (Draco hoped it was a he, it was hard to tell in the dim lighting) think he was? His room was his only space and now this… this intruder was invading it.

It gave Draco some slight satisfaction that they were given the scratchy wool blanket that all newcomers get. Draco had gotten in good enough with staff to upgrade to one of the donated knitted blankets. Draco reflected on this. Maybe Draco’d been in here _too_ long. They called this the “acute” ward, but Draco had been here for months. He’d nearly stopped counting. He knew all the staff by name and had even changed the hearts of staff that had misconceptions about the Malfoy name because of the war. Draco was different here. He was vulnerable here. But one thing had not changed: he was still miserable. He was still waking up every night in a cold sweat—if he even slept at all. And if he did, it could be for days at a time. Most times, he couldn’t even tell you how much time had passed. If he had been here too long, or not long enough. Or if he even wanted to leave.

Draco’s somber reflections snuffed his anger for the time being and he laid on his bed. He looked up at the ceiling and began to count the tiles, as he did every night. He took comfort in knowing that he would eventually count one hundred and thirteen, then count down backward to one and then count it upwards again, over and over until the weight on his chest felt a little lighter and the sun ascended from beneath the clouds.


	3. Admission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry gets admitted to the ward and Draco is not happy about it. Meanwhile Hermione has her own situations to consider in the Potions Research department.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to my beta, Dino. you're a blessing.

It was ten to nine when Harry felt someone pulling the woolen blanket off his bed. He moaned sleepily and turned over to the other side. He didn’t even remember having fallen asleep.   
  
“Mr. Potter.” A voice said sternly. For a moment, he thought he was back at Hogwarts. He peered sleepily through the crook of his arm at a tall, severe looking woman. Her olive skin had a strange green cast under the fluorescent lighting of the room. “Do you know where you are?”   
  
Truthfully, he did not. The last thing he remembered was being home, in his bed and now he looked as if he was in a hospital. He wanted to be surprised, but he couldn’t muster the energy for the emotion.   
  
"The hospital?"   
  
“That’s very good.” The witch intoned. “I’m Healer Price, the director of the mind healing ward, where you’ve been placed. It’s time for your intake, so if you’ll please follow me to my office.”   
  
It wasn’t a question. Harry laid for another moment, staring at her blankly before sitting up in bed with much difficulty. His hair was, if possible, even more unruly than usual and he was wearing clothing he’d put on three days before. He didn’t even bother to put shoes on as he followed Healer Price into her office. Even through his socks, he could feel the cold tile of the hospital floor. The walls were pale yellow, and perhaps at one time they were meant to be cheerful, but with age they had become dingy and gave the entire place a rather eerie atmosphere.   
  
Healer Price gestured for Harry to sit down and closed the door behind them.   
  
\--   
  
Draco seethed as the Healers took his vital signs that morning. Aiming a wand at his arm, he watched as numbers flooded onto the parchment of his file. 

  
“Blood pressure’s a bit high this morning.” The healer commented. “Best to relax a bit.”   
  
Draco gritted his teeth. “Thanks.” He said icily, stepping out of the exam area. The exam area was essentially a corner of the common area, squared off with dividers for privacy. He couldn’t even seethe in peace. And it was all he wanted to do after what he saw when he turned in his bed this morning.   
  
Potter.   
  
Saint Potter. Intruding on his space. Ruining everything like he had for Draco’s entire life. Draco could have had an entirely different life at Hogwarts. Didn’t have to be snubbed by Harry Potter, then pitied by him after the War. He always seemed to put his nose into everything in Draco’s life. Even this! Draco couldn't even be a bloody nutter in peace. Was nothing sacred?   
  
As Draco walked into the small cafeteria area; little more than a small kitchen with four tables, he took a seat with the other patients. One of Draco’s ‘healing goals’ while he was here was to create ‘meaningful’ connections. He wasn’t sure what that meant, or how it could be meaningful when most of the other people were bonkers, but he usually gave it a try anyway.   
  
There was one person he tolerated more than the rest. Paige Young. Although she’d gone to Beaubaxtons, he was certain that she would have been sorted into Slytherin had she gone to Hogwarts. He certainly minded her company less than the others. In fact, they spent the majority of their free time together.   
  
“You seem chipper this morning.” Paige said sarcastically, with a mouth full of eggs. Draco was loathe to call them eggs, however. Egg-like substance was more appropriate.   
  
Draco took a seat next to her, joining her at the table with another patient, Emily. “Oh yes, sunshine and bloody rainbows.” He grumbled. A healer came and put a tray in front of him. More egg like substances, toast and a glass of orange juice. “My life is a train wreck.”   
  
Paige leaned on her elbow. “Oh,” She prompted. “Do tell.”   
  
Draco sighed dramatically, moving his ‘food’ around on his plate. “Not enough time in the world.”   
  
“Tell me during group.” She said, starved for entertainment. The most stimulating thing she had found in the entire ward beside her conversations with Draco were the puzzles whose pictures moved upon completion, and even they were often napping.   
  
“It’s Wednesday. Price is running morning group today.” He said morosely.   
  
“Bollocks.” She replied. Everyone hated when Healer Price ran group therapy. Therapy itself was already almost three hours long, and Price was about as interesting as sliced bread. However, she was previously a teacher and had a keen eye for participation—or lack thereof in the case of Draco and Paige.   
  
Next to them, Emily hummed a song neither of them knew. Neither Paige nor Draco batted an eyelash. In the three weeks Emily had been there, she hadn’t spoken at all. She only hummed. Paige nodded at her and patted her hand affectionately.   
  
\--

  
“Have you been the victim of any curses, hexes or other behavior altering spells in the recent past?”   
  
Harry had been staring through the dusty blinds into the empty yellow hallway. It was hard to focus on what was happening.    
  
“No.”   
  
“Have you taken any behavior altering potions in the recent past?”    
“No.”    
  
Healer Price raised an eyebrow and made a check on her clipboard. “Please understand that a full physical examination of your magical aura will take place, including priori incatatum for the past month to rule out any dark magic. However, answering honestly now will save us significant amount of time.”   
  
Harry stared at her blankly, adjusting his glasses.    
  
“No, nothing like that.” He said. “Take some sleeping potions when I can’t sleep?” He added as an afterthought.    
  
Healer Price pursed her lips and scribbled some notes. Harry sighed and stared at her desk. It was pristine, save for an inkwell and papers on the desk. A name tag read “Hr. Eleanor Price.” Harry played with the frayed edges of his sweater. If he could feel anything-- which he wasn’t quite sure he could-- he'd feel quite like a teenager again, sitting with McGonagall in her office being reprimanded for sneaking out about the castle at night.   
  
“Mr. Potter, are you in possession of any enchanted artifacts? Bearing in mind that any vaults will be searched in regards to this matter.”   
  
“No.”   
  
“Have you had any issues casting? Side effects including but not limited to dizziness, disorientation, nausea or fainting spells?”   
  
“No.”   
  
“Right. Well, Mr. Potter, the following is an inventory of the items you are being admitted with—”   
  
“Admitted?” Harry asked.   
  
“Correct,” Healer Price said, taking her wand from her holster and unlocking a vault in the corner of her room. “You are being admitted into the mind healing department barring a full physical examination   
  
“And here,” She said, emptying a bag that had a tag on it reading ‘H. Potter’ And opening it in front of him. “We have your wand, which came in with you and Healer Granger as well as a pair of slippers, which you will be allowed to keep with you on the ward. However, your bottoms—”   
  
She indicated, pointing to his pajamas.   
  
“Will need to be changed as they have a drawstring and this could be used for self injurious purposes. In addition, we will hold your wand until you are well enough to leave. Eleven inches… Holly... Phoenix feather.” She paused, looking at his person. “Your glasses you will be allowed to wear as they are aids to help you see. Are there any other possessions on your person?”   
  
Harry said nothing and shook his head. He wondered to himself how he had even gotten here. He dared not ask. He wasn’t even certain he cared. He shook his head no.   
  
“Right, then, it looks like it’s time for the physical examination. You may change into this gown over there.”   
  
\---   
  
Hermione scribbled last minute case notes as she glanced at the clock. It was already half past eleven and no one had contacted her. Surely Harry would be awake by now. She had made sure to tell the healers on the ward that she wanted to be present when Harry woke up, when he went through the registration process. She didn't know what type of state he was in and she knew that waking up from that amount of Dreamless Sleep could be jarring.   
  
She bit her lip, recalling when they had brought him in. She had been terrified to separate with him, but there wasn't much she could do. Harry was asleep, being observed by crisis medi-witches and she desperately needed sleep herself. Ron had convinced her, finally, to leave, and she had slept fitfully in his arms.   
  
As Hermione finished her latest review of  a hiccoughing potion, Morgan peeked her head into Hermione's office.   
  
"Good afternoon, Healer Granger." She said politely.    
  
"Hello Morgan," Hermione said, depositing her quill back into her inkwell. "All well? Did you get the revisions for the Draught of Peace?"   
  
"Well, yes, but--" She paused. "That's not why I'm here. I went to collect the preliminary data from the mind healing department and I saw that Har-- er, your friend was awake. I thought you might want to know."   
  
Hermione turned to her with a furrowed brow. "Are you positive?" Morgan nodded. "Oh. Well, alright then. Thanks, Morgan."   
  
"Of course." She scurried out of the office.   
  
Hermione gathered her things to go over to the mind healing department. She was irate, wondering why they hadn't sent an interdepartmental memo or even came over in person. It wasn't as if St. Mungo's was exceedingly large. The entire mind healing department was only two large rooms, a smattering of closet sized sleeping areas and an office, for Merlin's sake.    
  
Upon entering the Mind Healing department, Hermione encountered the director, Eleanor Price. Hermione only knew her peripherally because of their potions testing-- mostly sedative and mood altering potions-- and when she had brought Harry here the night before.    
  
"Healer Price!" She called. Healer Price was locking the door to her office as she turned.   
  
"Healer Granger." She said nonchalantly. "Good afternoon, what brings you to this side of the hospital?"   
  
Hermione could barely hold her tongue, wanting to seethe,  _ you know what brings me here, you twit! _   
  
"My friend was brought here yesterday, and I wanted to be informed when he awoke. I would also like to be present during his admissions process as dreamless sleep can--"   
  
"The patient in question has already been admitted." Healer Price said casually. "Just this morning. He is likely in his room now, although when the assistants last went to check on him, he was asleep."   
  
"Why was I not informed about his admission?" Hermione snapped.   
  
"Healer Granger," Price said, placing her keys in her pocket and squaring up to Hermione as if explaining something to a small child. "Our resources in this department are very limited. I run a very tight ship. If I had to send a memo each time I needed to attend to routine hospital business with each patient, nothing would get accomplished. The sheer bureaucracy of it all. You understand."   
  
She most certainly did not understand.   
  
"While I am sympathetic to your situation," Hermione said icily. "I am the patient's first point of contact. Before proceeding with any other aspects of his care, do inform me."   
  
"As I do with all my patients." Price said flatly. "Is there anything else I can help you with, Healer Granger?"   
  
"No. Thanks." Hermione turned on her heel, making a mental note to look through the large book she had in her office on hospital policies.   
  
\--   
  
"Healing is achievable," Began Healer Price, looking up at the group, expectantly. "I know my mind is..."   
  
"Healable." The group said in unison, a monotonous chorus.   
  
"Precisely." Price said. "Now, let's start from the left today. Rose and a thorn."   
  
They started each session with a variation of a rose and a thorn. One good thing about the day, one bad. Healer Price looked expectantly at Eoin, his brown eyes staring back at her. He had been picking at his nails, not expecting to go first. He straightened in his seat, batting a strand of his tightly coiled hair out of his face.   
  
"Err, a rose." He began in a heavy Irish accent. "Well, me mam is coming tonight."   
  
"Wonderful." Price said flatly. "And a thorn?"   
  
He bit his lip, his freckled cheeks turning rosy. "Couldn't keep me hands to myself last night."   
  
"What do you mean?" Price asked, digging. She wanted him to say it, lay bare his shame. His guilt. She seemed chipper at the idea of it.   
  
"I-- err-- wanked the whole night." He said. "Couldn't stop myself."   
  
"Maybe that's something we can talk about." Price offered. Eoin shrugged, looking as if he could melt into his chair. Healer Price moved on.   
  
"Jon?" She asked.   
  
Jon, a wide framed man a little younger than Draco, sat in the chair directly to Eoin's right. He reminded Draco a bit of Hagrid, due to the sheer presence of him. He stared off into space, past Healer Price at who knew what.   
  
Jon was the first recipient of the mind healing potions trials on the ward since he had been there the longest, far longer than Draco. Draco had no idea what they had given the boy, but he was a shell of a human, who could utter two or three coherent words at most. Most of the time he didn't respond to anything.  He barely even blinked. If Draco hadn't been close enough to see the rise and fall of his chest, he wouldn't be quite sure of he was even alive.   
  
"We'll come back to you, Jon." Price said, after a long pause. She looked to his right. "Paige?"   
  
"Uh, well, a rose is that I am out of here soon!" She grinned. "A thorn is that I have to go back out into the real world full of normies."   
  
"Now, as we have discussed before," Healer Price iterated. "We are all quite normal in here. Perhaps we can discuss that as well." Draco stifled a chuckle, staring at the motley crew that he was a part of. Normal was not the first word he would use to describe them. Price turned to him.   
  
"And you, Draco?" Draco looked down at his hands, where he had been touching each finger to his thumb, one after the other in a soothing, rhythmic pattern.   
  
"A rose is that I dreamt about having a stupendous beef Wellington." A thorn, he thought, is that my mortal enemy is now on the ward. "A thorn is that it was only a dream."   
  
Eoin, Paige and couple of others laughed. Healer Price stared up at him from underneath her glasses.   
  
"No other roses or thorns, Mr. Malfoy?"   
  
"No, m'am." He said, continuing to tap his fingers.   
  
"Very well."    
  
They continued this way until each of the had spoken; Gertrude's rose being that she had tea with Nicolas Flamel that morning, to which no one batted an eyelash. Jodie had washed her hands only 10 times today instead of her normal 16.    
  
"Does anyone want to start with sharing?" Asked Healer Price after everyone had finished their Rose's and thorns. "How has everyone's week been thus far?"   
  
Draco felt like these questions were so banal. She knew exactly how their week had been because they had been locked in the ward with her.    
  
"Paige, maybe we can jump back to you? You are leaving the ward soon."   
  
Paige had been trying to avoid eye contact with Price so that she wouldn't have to talk more. Caught in Price's eyesight, she shifted in her seat. Draco couldn't tell if she was annoyed or just uncomfortable.    
  
"You said before you were nervous?" Healer Price prodded.   
  
"A bit." She said truthfully. "Going to miss this lot. It means a lot when you're crazy--" Price looked up at her. "Err... struggling all together. Kinda makes you feel a bit like a little family."   
  
Healer Price nodded. An awkward pause sat in the air, as if she was waiting for Paige to continue. Paige looked at her sheepishly.   
  
"Dunno, it's nice to know exactly what's going to happen. Wish it was like that out there."   
  
A few of the people in group nodded, including Draco. What he wouldn't give for stability in his life. He never thought he would yearn for monotony but after hosting the Dark Lord in one's home, one could get used to the idea.   
  
"I see many people agreeing." Healer Price noted. "Can anyone relate to these feelings?"   
  
Jodie nodded. "At home, everyone expects so much from me. At the office, too. I feel like I am drowning."   
  
Jodie's eyes filled with tears, as if remembering something. This happened often. Draco stared at his feet, willing her not to sob uncontrollably. It generally extended sessions significantly.   
  
Emily hummed in agreement.   
  
"Do you agree, Emily?" Asked Price.   
  
Emily smiled at her, motioning to her palm as if showing Healer Price something fascinating on it. Healer Price peered over her glasses.   
  
"That reminds me," Gertrude said confidently, "of when I used to do the schedule for the Minister. What a very busy man! Not even time for a nice cuppa."   
  
"Is a schedule important to you?" Asked Price.   
  
"Quite." Gertrude. "As Chief Warlock, you have to keep schedules. Even in here when I was the Head Healer, working with... oh, what was his name..."   
  
Yesterday Gertude was an award winning curse breaker. Last week she has been a dragon tamer. It was hard to keep up with which parts of Gertrude's diatribes actually happened and which she merely believed had happened. He had a soft spot for Gertrude, her small frame and untidy white hair. It reminded him a bit of his nan, whom he had only known when he was a small boy.   
  
"Very good." Healer Price said curtly. "Anyone else?"   
  
Draco was ready to open his mouth before he heard the shrieking sob of Jodie to his right, shaking violently. He thought he saw Healer Price sigh, but he wasn't sure. As she moved towards Jodie's seat, Draco sighed for her. He looked over at Paige and they exchanged a glance. This was going to be a long session.   
  
  
\---   
  
  
Hermione sat in her office with the latest draft of Draught of Peace case notes on her desk while balancing "St. Mungo's Policies and Procedures" on her lap. She wouldn't admit to herself that Harry being in the mind healing ward was a distraction, though it was. What was more distracting and frustrating was the way they were treating him. Although she didn't expect them to fawn over him because he was the Boy Who Lived, she did think some type of... well, consideration would be given based on the fact that he was the savior of the Wizarding World. It was a strange juxtaposition in her mind; she was glad they weren't treating Harry differently, but given the way Healer Price ran the ward, she rather hoped they did.   
  
"Healer Granger?" Hermione looked up at the sound of Morgan's voice. Morgan always seemed so afraid to interrupt her, as if she was intruding on some sacred moment.   
  
"Yes?" Hermione asked politely.   
  
"Mr. Davenport would like to see you in his office when you get a moment." Davenport. The head of the potions department. Her boss. She stared for a moment, the panic beginning to rise in her. Had she really been so distracted? Had he noticed? Was he going to reprimand her? Fire her? Her mind raced. Morgan stared, biting her lip. 

"He's-- err-- in his office now if you wanted to go in." Morgan offered.   
  
_ Better to just get it over with. _ thought Hermione.   
  
"Thanks Morgan." She said, rising from her seat. Morgan nodded and Hermione followed her out of the room toward Davenport's office. She knocked confidently.   
  
"Come in." Came a muffled voice.   
  
Andrew Davenport did not look very intimidating at first glance. He was roughly Hermione's height, portly with thinning hair. His appearance sometimes reminded Hermione of a well groomed Father Christmas. However, once he shook your hand, you could tell the man was serious.    
  
"Mr. Davenport." Hermione said expectantly. "You wanted to see me?"   
  
"Do sit down." He proffered, gesturing to the seat across from him. Hermione sat down silently. "Have you finished the Draught of Peace study yet?"   
  
"Well," She said, wondering briefly why he had called her in to discuss this instead of sending a memo. "I've only just gotten the preliminary data from the mind healing department this morning, so there's still quite a bit to sift through."   
  
"An undertaking, but one you're capable of. You are always up to task." He said.   
  
Hermione raised a brow, but nodded. "I pride myself in my work, sir."   
  
Mr. Davenport laughed. "Yes, undoubtedly do. I want you to know that myself, as well as the Treatment department in general have taken notice.”

He paused, taking a deep breath as if pondering something before he continued.   
  
"Healer Granger, this may come as a but of a shock, but I am going to retire at the end of this year. I haven't told anyone yet because I haven't found a suitable replacement yet."   
  
Hermione's heart raced. Did he mean...?   
  
"I have a number of candidates in mind, but I trust you the most. This offer does not come lightly and will be contingent on your work with the clinical mind healing trials, as it has been one of our most challenging cases." He looked her straight in the eyes. "I think you are capable and I know you would make an incredible Head of Potions research."   
  
The conversation lightened as he allowed Hermione to chew on his offer. They ended with polite conversation ("Is Lucy eleven already? She'll be off to Hogwarts soon then!") before Hermione shook his hand and left the room.    
  
She sat down at her desk and tried to regain her composure. A million thoughts ran through her head, but there was one in particular that stayed in the forefront.   
  
She thought to herself that Hermione Granger, Head of the Potions Research Department had quite a ring to it. She grinned to herself as she reopened her case notes.


	4. Solitaire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry dares to leave his bed. Draco has to walk the ward and they meet in the cafeteria.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have an idea of where I would like to see this story go, but please comment if you have any suggestions of things you'd like to see!

"Harry, honey. It's nearly noon." Harry heard a melodic voice by his ear. He didn't want to wake up, but the voice encouraged him ever so gently. As he turned, he met his own startling green eyes. His mother gently unrolled his covers, grabbing his glasses from the nightstand beside his bed. He put them on, stretching and turning to get up.

 

"Sorry," He said. "Couldn't sleep last night. Had a terrible nightmare."

 

"Well," Lily said, folding his blanket at the edge of his bed. "Just a dream. It's not real and whatever was happening, it's done now."

 

"You're right," Harry answered groggily. "Only, it's left me feeling a bit--"

 

A barely audible pop of apparition penetrated the air and Harry turned as a bright green light filtered across the room. In the light, he could make out his own face, staring back at him.

 

"Harry!" His mother yelled. He wasn't sure if it was in warning or confusion.

 

He heard his own voice scream, "Avada Kedavra!" before waking up in a sweat. 

 

He stared at the plain, faded wallpaper in the hospital room trying to catch his breath. He blinked twice to adjust his vision, to make sure what he was seeing was, indeed real. Was it worse, really? Than where he was? Half awake, half alive in the mind healing ward? 

 

Harry laid back down onto the springy mattress of the hospital bed. He carefully adjusted his feet, laid his face on the side of the pillow and wept.

  
  


\----

 

"Is it true?" Draco heard Paige's voice as he worked on his drawing. Today's Creative Healing session was about creating something that is inspired by someone you love. Eoin had written a poem about his mum, Jodie a poorly painted watercolor portrait of her sister and Gertrude had simply sung the English Wizarding National Anthem. Draco had pondered before taking out his usual, well-loved tin of charcoals, that he wasn't really sure if he loved anyone. It led him to wonder exactly what love meant to him as a word itself; was his father's discipline love? His mother sympathetic gestures? His childhood friends who he'd not heard a noise from since he came to the Mind Healing department? Draco had difficulty figuring out what his criteria for love were and who, if anyone, had ever met them. He decided at least partially that to love someone was to depend on them. The only one who could think of that fit that criteria was his pet owl-- dependable, of course, even a little bit affectionate. The body of his eagle owl, Titus began to form on the paper. The drawing eased into life with experienced gracefulness, paying particular attention to the shading of his eyes. Draco liked using charcoals for this reason; the depth. There is no uncertainty here; there is darkness and there is light. It is easy and uncomplicated. No grey area, no room for irresolute doubt. It was somehow comforting to have that salience because Draco Malfoy was a grey area.

 

"Is it true then?" Paige asked again, moving her seat next to Draco's. 

 

"That you're a lousy artist?" asked Draco, not looking up from his drawing. He sketched in the regal V shaped tuft of Titus's brow. 

 

"I'll choose to ignore that." She said, putting her own clay creation down on the table in front of them. "True that Harry Potter is on the ward. And he's the 'insufferable prat' of a roommate you were grumbling about!"

 

"Being savior of the wizarding world and being an insufferable prat are not mutually exclusive." He replied.

 

"So it is true then!" Paige exclaimed, leaning on her elbow. "The Boy Who Lived in the looney bin."

 

Jodie looked up from her muddy masterpiece, listening to Paige with wide eyes. "Harry Potter? What's he doing on the ward?"

 

Draco didn't answer. The truth was that he didn't know. Potter hadn't said a word since he came on the ward and Draco certainly wasn't going to be the one to break the ice. It was also infuriating that Draco was the centre of the group's attention-- but because of  _ his roommate _ . If he was being honest with himself, he also knew that he was also peeved about not knowing the circumstances of Potter's admission. Draco's father had always said that knowledge,  particularly incriminating knowledge about those around you, was power. Draco had spent so many years searching for the type of power his father described: making all the right connections, overhearing all the right conversations, spying for the Dark Lord. But something about the ward, in particular about knowing nothing about Harry's situation, made him feel powerless.

 

"Harry Potter!" Gertrude explained. "Defeated the Dark Lord with just his bare hands!"

 

_ Not exactly, no. _ Draco thought. The wizarding world at large remembered to Final Battle the way they wanted to. The revisionists remembering only that Harry Potter defeated the Dark Lord yet again and that families like the Malfoys were simply surviving in choosing to help the Dark Lord. Allowed to re-enter society if only by the good graces of Harry Potter, speaking at their trial about unity and redemption.

 

"D'you suppose he's into men at all?" Eoin asked, his interest piqued. It was no secret that Harry Potter was the Wizarding World's most coveted bachelor, much to Draco's chagrin. It was also no secret that Eoin would want to try it on with Potter. Or anyone with a pulse, really.

 

"I won't begin to presume anything about Harry Potter's sexual preference," Draco said, shading Titus's shoulder blades. "and I would advise you not to either, given your past… predilections."

 

Eoin paused and pressed his lips into a small line. Draco normally wasn't so snippy, but all this attention for Potter's arrival was beginning to stir something unpleasant and irate inside of Draco. So much for making meaningful connections, he thought.

 

"Okay, let's talk about our work." Mind Healer Anna, the recreational healer, said, her voice quiet and airy. "Draco, since you seem to have everyone's attention, would you like to share first?"

 

Draco closed his eyes, feeling the irritation sit inside of him, burning like a blast ended skrewt in the pit of his chest. He wanted to yell at the Mind Healer, at Eoin, even at Paige. He just wanted to be left alone. He wanted to be far away from humans and their preconceived notions, their judgements, their questions.

 

"No." He said simply, carrying on with his drawing. It was mostly finished, his quick drawing of Titus. However, every time Draco looked at one of his own drawings, there was always something that could be improved, enhanced, perfected. Best could always be made better. The name Malfoy was always to be synonymous with perfection. Vulnerability was a blemish and was not tolerated.

 

"Ah, I see," Mind Healer Anna said pleasantly. "You haven't finished yet! I understand. We can--"

 

"No," he repeated, placing his picture on the table. "You misunderstand me. No. Meaning I will not. No, meaning you will not assume my answers, volunteer me for things, decide anything about my life for me. Everyone thinks they have a say in what I can and can't do-- that they--"

 

"Draco--" Anna began, soothingly. "There's no need to--"

 

"Again, telling me there's no need-- no need for what? To tell you all what presumptuous twats you all are? On a bloody power trip just--"

 

"Draco." She said more firmly. "I think you need some space."

 

"Don't presume to know what I need! Space or otherwise!" He said darkly.

 

"Mr. Malfoy!" Healer Price chose that moment to peek in, her authoritative voice echoing inside of the room. "Can you come here for a moment, please?"

 

He stood up and threw down his charcoals at his paper, adding a slew of messy black speckles to Titus's regal countenance. The room was silent except for Emily, humming an unfamiliar tune in the corner, seemingly unaware of Draco’s outburst.

 

Once in the hallway, Healer Price added some notes to a clipboard and stared at Draco through her thick, wire-rimmed spectacles. 

 

"Healer Thomas tells me that your blood pressure was high this morning." She said flatly. Draco fought to roll his eyes. "Outbursts like that are not good for your heart. I think it's time to take a little walk."

 

Taking a walk on the ward was the most inane and useless "solution" to any problem there. The entire area took about a minute or so to walk and circled back onto itself at the recreation area. When the Mind healers suggested that any of the patients take a walk, they were really telling them to walk in circles around the ward, over and over, past the rusted door frames with patient names, past the dingy yellow walls, the fractured floor tiles. Draco scowled and began to walk. At minimum, it would get him away from Healer Price. He could even sometimes wear himself out if he ran. Anything to stop thinking about what was happening, about all the emotions inside of him that threatened to surface. He couldn’t show those. Not even to the mind healers.

 

It was true, he told himself, that he had come to heal. But as he passed the reception desk, he wondered how anyone could heal here. Or if they had reached circumstances as dire as his own to use the mind healing ward as a last-ditch effort.

 

As he passed his own room for the third time, he looked over at the "H. Potter" nameplate next to his own. He wondered, in a moment of weak sympathy, what Potter's own circumstances could have been. He was the exalted savior of the wizarding world. What on Earth could have made his life so terrible that he needed to be in the ward? The adoring fans? Best mates that showed him time and time again that they were willing to die for him? 

 

Draco began to count each step as he took it, allowing the rhythmic beat of ascending numbers to soothe him.

 

\---

 

"Mr. Potter?" 

 

A voice coaxed Harry from his restless sleep. He turned to look at the source of the sound. Harry could hazily make out around, tan face at the side of his bed. Without his glasses, he couldn't really make out the features, but the voice, a warm tenor, was pleasant and inviting.

 

"I'm Healer Jay. I've just come to take your vitals." They pointed to their wand with their free hand. Harry went to lean for his glasses and sat upright in bed. The healer began to point his wand at various parts of Harry's arm.

 

Harry stared blankly across the room as the healer took his vitals, a faint amber light casting over him. He looked at the small room, with two twin sized beds, two identical nightstands, and two identical dressers. The one farthest from him had an assortment of toiletries placed on top of it, arranged in a neat line. He assumed those belonged to his roommate.

 

His roommate. If he could feel anything, he would chuckle at the irony. That at his lowest moment, the universe had paired him with someone who had been responsible for so many other low moments of his life. He didn't hate Draco-- and he truly believed the things he said at the Malfoys' trial about them being redeemable. However, he couldn't lie and say Draco was his best mate. That he didn't think he was a pretentious, entitled prick. But he definitely wasn't a prick who wanted to commit mass genocide against muggleborns.

 

"Your blood pressure is a bit low for my liking." Healer Jay said, a tinge of concern in their voice. "Have you eaten?" 

 

Harry shrugged. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. He recalled at some point Hermione had come in and had nearly shoved some biscuits down his throat, but he'd been in and out of sleep so much that it was hard to know exactly when that was. Yesterday? This morning? It all felt like one long moment, where Harry was holding his breath, waiting to exhale. Waiting for something to change. To not feel like this.

 

"Well," He said fondly, a tone he used for many of his other patients. "Then it's off to lunch with you then. Healer's orders." He paused for a moment. "Do you think you can manage?

 

It was a loaded question. Physically, sure. Harry supposed there was nothing stopping him from going to wherever it was they held meals. But the pull he felt to stay horizontal, wrapped up inside his sheets, feeling ensconced by the scratchy wool blankets and lulled into sleep was achingly strong. Sometimes, his sleep was dreamless and the hope that it would be is what always sent him back there. That he could get away from the dull ache in his chest, away from the pull so deep into the mattress he could become bed springs themselves.

 

Instead, he nodded. It took all of his the inertia of Harry's spirit to stand up from his seated position in the bed and take steps towards the door. Healer Jay lead him towards the kitchen area, only around the corner from his own room. He could hear the low voices of people talking and silverware clinking. As they got closer to the door, Harry paled. He had faced Lord Voldemort and yet in this moment, he wanted nothing more than turn right back around and go back to bed. His heart began to race. He couldn't do this. This couldn’t be real. He wasn't in the mind healing ward. This ache in his chest wasn't real. All of the terrible things a small eleven-year-old boy had to go through to become this broken, panicked, pitiful failure afraid to cross the threshold of a cafeteria. 

 

Healer Jay looked at him kindly and led him into the cafeteria. At once, the room went silent. Harry had thought more people had been in the room, from the sound of it, but if one judged by sound now, they would have thought it empty. Healer Jay indicated a vacant seat for Harry at an empty table by the door. The room's eyes followed Harry as he sat down. He pretended not to notice. He put his arms on the table and his head in his arms.

 

"Fish and chips alright?" Healer Jay asked. 

 

"S'perfect." Harry said through his sleeves. Jay nodded and turned to go fetch him his food. Harry knew this was going to go poorly. He knew he didn't want to be around people. Their eyes, their questions, their judgments. Harry had could not live without someone else's scrutiny. He sighed into the heavy cotton of his jumper, fogging up his glasses. He felt on the verge of tears. 

 

He wasn't like this. Sensitive, anxious, weepy. He spent years being in the purview of... well, everyone. Even criticized when he knew Voldemort was back. He knew how to face people. Had done it from the moment he was born, starting with the Dursleys.

 

Then why-- he thought, fighting the tightness in his chest-- did he feel like he would fall apart right now?

 

"Here you go." Jay said pleasantly, placing a plate of fish and chips in front of Draco. Harry lifted his head from his arms to observe the plate. In the same moment, a very winded Draco Malfoy appeared in the door frame. 

 

Draco had tried to speak to Harry on multiple occasions inside of their shared room. Some condescending jabs and questions; but Harry did not have the energy of spirit to answer him. Sensing there would be no answer, Draco stopped trying. Harry hardly noticed his roommate's comings and goings. He mostly slept and wasn't awake long enough to notice what Draco was doing.

 

Except at this moment. Draco looked straight at Harry, perfectly composed except for a brief look of shock that passed on his face that was gone as soon as it appeared. He eyed the room and the open seats at the smatterings of tables. There were plenty. One girl, in particular, rearranged her tray to make space for him. Draco paused for a moment and sat down across from Harry wordlessly.

 

Harry said nothing. The only thing he could hear was the sound of his fork hitting his own plate and the deafening looks of the cafeteria. 

 

"Here you are, Draco." Jay said, handing Draco a tray. He took it tenderly and placed it in front of him, across from Harry.

 

"Thanks, Jay." He said. "How was the rest of group?"

 

"Saved your picture." Jay said, going over towards a small box in the corner of the room to retrieve it. He passed it over to Draco and Harry barely caught a glance, seeing only that it was a drawing of some sort, in black and white.

 

"Much appreciated." He said, rolling it up and slipping it into the deep pocket of his cotton trousers. He then proceeded to grab a piece of his fish and pop it into his mouth. He stared out of the door, past Harry, as he chewed, almost as if he wasn't there. Harry almost wanted to be bothered by it, but it was oddly comforting, not being noticed. 

 

The rest of lunch continued similarly: with the cafeteria's eyes following Harry's every bite, Draco staring off into space and Harry pretending not to watch him.

 

\--

  
  


"I've had a lengthy meeting with Healer Price." Hermione said exasperatedly. "With only eight patients, one would think her schedule would be a bit, well,  _ easier _ to fit into."

 

Harry didn't respond. He laid flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. Melancholic, perhaps, but it was better than Hermione had seen him in the last few days. He was above the covers, not curled onto his side. He had even made eye contact. Healer Price had even told her that he'd gone to lunch earlier. Though she may not care for the woman, progress was progress. Even if it was incremental.

 

"That's not to say that the work she doesn't isn't time-consuming and worthwhile of course." Hermione amended, thinking about the fact that her friend was one of Healer Price's wards. "And by worthwhile, I mean-- not that anyone is a lost cause, just that some cases are more complex than others."

 

There was another long pause. Had she offended him? She couldn't be sure if he even heard her, since he didn't really respond. Hermione bit her lip. It was hard to see Harry like this. He was normally so full of life, ready for the next adventure. Like this, he barely spoke.

 

"Harry?" She asked. 

 

"Hm?" He asked, looking over. Hermione could see his green eyes were watery, yet there was an eerie calm in his expression.

 

"Harry, you know you can tell me anything, right?" She'd been down this road of conversation before, to no avail. But perhaps if she just reminded him...

 

"Mmm-hmm." He intoned affirmatively, pulling the sleeves down over his hands. Hermione would have to remember to talk to Healer Price about the temperature control on the ward during their next meeting. 

 

"Alright, I just--" She paused. "I'm just a little bit worried is all."

 

Harry thought a moment before answering. "I know." He said flatly. He leaned over on his side. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for scaring you."

 

Hermione felt tears prick the back of her eyes, but was determined not to let them fall. Hermione was the glue that held these boys together. She was the strong one, who could use her mind for anything. To get them out of any situation. Even this one. She could fix this. She  _ would  _ fix this. Help Harry and everything could go back to normal. She could do it, couldn’t she?

 

"Oh Harry, I'm just glad you're okay." There was a waver in her voice. "I want you to do everything you need to to heal, okay?"

 

"I am." He said frankly. "I really want to. I just... I don't even know how."

 

"I know," She said warmly, taking a seat next to him on the bed and embracing him. "That's what you're here for."

 

\--

  
  


"What was that earlier?" Paige asked as the group dispersed. The Mind Healing ward schedule was full of group activities. It was punctuated by other activities such as art, recreation, and food, as it was daunting to talk about one's history and feelings for hours on end. They were moving into a recreation period, and Paige was ready to get some information from Draco.

 

"Haven't the slightest what you're referring to." Draco responded.

 

"You bloody well know exactly what I'm referring to." She said, grabbing her playing cards from the recreation box and setting them on the table. Paige, having grown up with a muggle mother, had an affinity for card games. She preferred the muggle cards to the enchanted ones, though Draco didn't understand the draw. She set up a game she had shown Draco called "Solitaire," which required no other players. 

 

In French, Solitaire meant lonely, and Draco thought it a fitting game. Although, he couldn't say he was lonely per say. He preferred to be alone. It was easier that way. Away from judgment, scrutiny, demands. Because when he spent too long with people, Draco found he had some other choice French words he'd like to say to them, which he often chose to keep to himself.

 

"Are you talking about having lunch with my roommate? Hardly noteworthy." He said dismissively, grabbing a piece of paper and pencil from one of the boxes. He preferred charcoal, but he could only access that during their art period. Graphite would have to suffice.

 

"Hardly noteworthy!" Paige said with a snort. "You were barking mad about having him as your roommate to begin with and now he's your best mate?" 

 

"I would hardly call sharing a meal being best mates." He said. "If that's the only criteria, then you and Gertrude must be bosom buddies."

 

"Draco!" She growled playfully. "You are being ridiculous! You know how boring my life is in here and you're withholding information from me? This is the most interesting thing that's happened in  _ weeks _ ."

 

Draco smirked as he drew vague shapes with the dull pencil. They were not allowed to sharpen their own pencils, as sharpeners were not permitted. There were no healers in sight, so he made due with what he had.

 

" _ Draco... _ " Paige drawled. "You're hiding something, I know it. What I haven't figured out is why."

 

Draco chuckled. The thrill of having knowledge that someone else wanted was not lost on him. He loved it. Feeling powerful in this powerless place. Where the staff could justify pretty much any behavior for the sake of "healing." While Draco knew he was much safer here than his home, he could think of about a dozen other locales he'd rather be that fit that criteria. 

 

Truthfully, that surge of power, that air of mystery, of keeping everyone guessing-- that's why Draco had sat with Potter to begin with. He was, firstly, shocked to see the bloke out of his room, out of the bed to begin with. But he couldn't let him have all the shock factor. Have all the intel, the information. No, Draco needed to be on the cusp all of the happenings no matter where he was. Even if that meant being the happening himself.

 

It was a strange duality if he truly admitted it to himself; wanting both to be left alone, but also right in the middle of the action. He wondered if there was any way of possibly balancing the two desires. Because immediately when people like Paige began to question him, he regretted being a part of it; but also got an almost high from being the object of her questioning. Of having answers she wanted.

 

It was one of the things that got him through being Voldemort's spy. Having information about Hogwarts, about Potter and Dumbledore that no one else in the Death Eaters had. Of having information about Voldemort that Potter couldn't have dreamed of. Of being on the precipice of new information, of being important and needed. But also wanting to get so far away from Malfoy Manor and Hogwarts that he could scarcely remember the layout.

 

"I'm sure I haven't any clue what you're talking about." Draco said, almost coyly, with an impish grin. "I'm here to heal and I  _ need _ to keep my focus."

 

Paige sighed exasperatedly as she slammed down a Four of Spades. Draco laughed. 


	5. Harry's First Group Session

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wizarding World gets word that Harry is in St. Mungo's. Harry has his first therapy group. Ron comes to visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Just got promoted at work (yay!) but also comes with a host of new responsibilities. Criticism and feedback welcome!

Hermione took one last bite of her sandwich, filling in some last details on some paperwork. She put down her napkin, scrawling a couple of last words before checking her watch and realizing she only had a few minutes to floor to St. Mungo's. She took a moment to prepare herself for the inevitable onslaught of reports that would need to be done when she got back-- the was a bad batch of Skelegrow that had cause several patients to grow tails, and Hermione needed to review all their recipes with a fine toothed comb. She also had to send all the proper documentation for each affected patient to the Safety department and forward a Unintentional Consequence form to the Ministry. She took a deep breath, enjoying her last moments in the quaint cafe she loved to have lunch at.

 

The Margrove café, owned by an immigrant Frenchman and his wife, was Hermione’s favorite lunch time spot. Besides the delicious food and good prices, her favorite thing about it was that it was out of the way. Nestled deep into Diagon Alley, only the door was visible from the main alleyway, balooning into an obviously charmed dining area with a large glass ceiling.

 

Reminiscing about the quaintness of her favorite café, Hermione turned to say goodbye to the owner, Louie, who was wiping the counter. But someone came and stood directly in her way; a tall, gangly witch with a very round face. She seemed to be out of breath.

 

“Excuse me, Miss Granger—” She said hurriedly. Hermione considered how the phrase “excuse me” was to be meant to be an apology, but that whenever someone started a conversation that way with her, they were often about to say something that they didn’t really want to be excused. “Could I get a quote from you about Harry Potter’s recent hospitalization?”

 

Hermione stared at the girl stoically. How did they already know? It had only been a few days. She took a moment to think about whether or not she should even entertain the idea. A moment too long

“Seeing as you are a Potions Research Manager at St. Mungo’s, is there any insight you can give to the situation? Is he ill? Is he injured? Is he in critical condition?”

 

“I’m sorry,” Hermione said, pushing past the girl. “I need to get back to work.”

 

“But Ms. Granger!” The woman exclaimed to Hermione’s retreating back. “Inquiring minds want to know! Harry Potter is the savior of the wizarding world, and Witch Weekly readers need to know if he’s okay.”

 

“What Witch Weekly needs,” Hermione pronounced, opening the front door to the café, eliciting a ring from the bell on top. “is to mind it’s bloody business!”

Successfully angered, Hermione slammed the door behind her, leaving a gaping reporter in her wake. The woman took out her notepad and her Quick Quotes Quill spelled to life and began scrawling furiously onto the paper.

 

\---

 

The paperback book fell with a soft thump on the edge of Draco's bed. He looked up to see Paige, hand on her hip, staring at him expectantly. He looked up from his current project, a piece of paper he was folding into an origami...  something. It was one of the recreational activities they had done that day and while Draco hadn't quite gotten the hang of it, he had to admit that the actual act of folding the paper was quite soothing.

 

"Thought you might like this." She said, sitting beside him. He glanced at the book. In large yellow letters it read "Forbidden Love" and featured a large, muscular man with long, flowing hair. Draco cocked an eyebrow.

 

"You got me a romance novel?" He asked, his voice tinged with amusement.

 

"Not just any romance novel," She intoned. "A delicious tale of passion and lust that stars Pierre and his many lovers."

 

If you had asked Draco six months ago if he would be talking about romance novels with a fellow looney on the Mind Healing ward, he would have hexed you in a moment. But spending his days on the ward being snarky and lusting after the muscular heroes of the Mind Healing departments' finest literature had made Draco feel just a bit less lonely. He often even considered Paige as a friend.

 

He didn’t have too many other people in his life that had that title, at least not anymore. He often wondered what they would think about his sexuality. Then he thought about what his father would say. His muscles tightened in recollection of his father's rage. Draco had known he was attracted to men since he was thirteen, and he kept it inside of himself. Told no one for years. Grabbed at the affections of experimenting boys, knowing his future was to marry a Pureblood witch and produce a Malfoy heir.

 

Draco grabbed the book. "I hope I have time to read this. Hard to do with my full schedule."

 

She laughed. "Well, I need you to have something to remember me by."

 

"I assure you," He drawled. "You are quite unforgettable."

 

"How do you make a positive thing sound like an insult?" She asked in mock offense.

 

Draco cracked a small smile. "Malfoys are notoriously talented in that way."

 

"And little else." She countered.

 

"I am talented in many ways." He replied, with a faux indignation. "I speak fluent French, I know how to play the piano and I could give Pierre a run for his money."

 

"In what?" She prodded. "Certainly not notches in your bed post."

 

"I was going to say my incredible body and flowing locks," He said, a smirk on his lips. "But mostly because I assumed my coital rolodex goes without saying."

 

Paige laughed and laid her back on his bed. There was a moment of pause, a peaceful, comfortable silence between them. Then Paige turned to him.

 

"Draco," She asked him earnestly. "Are you sure you're going to be okay in here without me?"

 

The honest answer was no. But he wasn't okay and she _was_ here, so what was the difference? He wasn’t sure there was anything that make him okay. Every meeting began with their ridiculous mantra, "Healing is achievable, I know my mind is healable." But for as many times as he had uttered those words, he didn’t believe them. He felt like a lost cause. That the demons inside of him would never be quelled. The terror that lived inside him could not be squashed. The pain inside of his chest compressing his insides could never be soothed. It was thoughts like this that made Draco wonder what the point of all this was. He had failed his family, failed the wizarding world, failed himself. Why bother with any of this?

 

"Draco?"

 

He turned to Paige. "Sorry, just thinking about how wildly narcissistic it is to believe that I need you in order to be okay." She frowned. "Really all I need is a nice filet mignon and a dry merlot and I would be fine."

 

"Coming from the world's biggest narcissist." She rolled her eyes.

 

"It takes a thief to catch a thief." He stated, sitting up on his bed.

 

"The only thing you've thieved is my sanity." She remarked.

 

"And that's already in short supply." He quipped, grinning.

 

She gasped, laughing and threw the book at him. "Prat!"

 

He chuckled and then paused. In a rare moment of utter vulnerability, he placed his hand on hers. "You know you're going to be okay out there, right?"

 

A moment passed before she put her hand over his. She gave him a watery smile. "I hope so."

 

\---

 

 

Harry wasn’t sure how he had gotten to the small circle in the large, dingy recreation room. He looked down at his slippers nervously, not wanting to make eye contact with anyone. He knew, logically, that he was with other people who also needed mind healing... what if they were crazier than him? Or worse, not as crazy as him?

 

Healer Price took a seat at the far end of the circle. She took out her clipboard and adjusted her spectacles. The room was silent.

 

"Healing is achievable." She stated.

 

Harry looked up as the rest of the group chanted, "I know my mind is healable."

 

He cringed. The unified, monotone chant sounded very much like a cult speaking. Like a dozen Imperiused voices with the same hollow intonation.

 

"Welcome, Mr. Potter. We start every meeting with our affirmation." Healer Price said flatly, as if answering a question Harry had not asked. "We will go around now and do a rose and a thorn. One positive thing that you have done or are looking forward to, and one thing that is bothering you."

 

The group was paying varying degrees of attention to Healer Price, but in that moment, they all avoided her eyes. Except Harry, who looked at her curiously.

 

"Since this is your first day here, why don’t you start?" Harry immediately sensed that this was not actually a question.

 

"Err--" He said haltingly. "I'm not sure how--"

 

"Start with a rose. What is something positive that has happened to you?"

 

He tried to think. Positive was not something that came easily to him at the moment.

 

"My friend came to visit me." He said weakly. He couldn’t think of anything else, and truly having Hermione there was a comfort to him.

 

"Wonderful. And a thorn?"

 

Harry pondered for a moment. Being in the mind healing ward in itself was a thorn for him. He wanted to be a normal, functioning person who didn’t need to be in a hospital for being mental.

 

But you aren't normal, the voice in his head reasoned. You've been trying to kill a mad man since you were eleven. You have no parents. You are depressed! There is nothing normal about you.

 

He sighed before answering. "Dunno. Being here I guess."

 

Price looked back at him, indifferent.  "We can speak more about that later. Perhaps your peers have some insight on that."

 

Harry felt very much like he had answered wrong, although he wasn't quite sure how that was possible. He became so fixated on this idea that he didn't really hear any of the other patients' answers until he heard a familiar voice.

 

"A thorn is that I have to have a roommate now," Draco said without looking at Harry. Harry wanted to be offended but could not muster up the emotion. "The rose is that he doesn’t snore like my last roommate."

 

Harry briefly wondered what else his old roommate had done. Or how his roommate had left the ward. Had his mind been truly healed? Would Harry's? Did he even need healing? Sure, he was sad sometimes, but wasn’t everyone? Was he overreacting? He looked at the other people in his group. Was he suffering like they were? Truly Harry couldn’t tell just by looking at them. Except perhaps Jon, who had a faraway look in his eyes all the time. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

 

"Mr. Potter," Healer Price asked. "You said that your thorn was being here with us. Can elaborate a little more about that?"

 

Harry supposed that he could. However, being in a group of people he didn’t not know, being asked to share his innermost secrets did not seem inviting at all. Harry didn’t even want to share his emotions with his best friends, let alone people he didn’t know. He had literally been trained in Occulumency so that even when people tried to pry it out of his mind, they wouldn’t be able. He knew how important his own thoughts were. He also knew the consequences of telling people who wouldn’t keep his secrets-- the tabloids of the Witch Weekly always had a new theory about him, generally inspired by the truth, but drawing its own outlandish conclusions. What if the participants of this group sold him out to the Witch Weekly or the Prophet? And what, even, was the point of even telling your problems to a group? They weren't obligated to care. They likely didn’t.

 

"Mr. Potter?" Healer Price asked. It broke the spell of his racing thoughts.

 

"Err-- sorry. Uh. I have never been in a place like this before. It's... it's a bit-- err--" He searched for the word. "It's intimidating."

 

"Can you clarify what you mean by intimidating?"

 

Nothing got past her, did it?

 

"Dunno. I suppose its intimidating to share my feelings." He finally admitted honestly.

 

"I don’t think you're the only one that feels that way." Healer Price said. "Can anyone relate to that sentiment?"

 

Many of the participants nodded. It gave Harry a small burst of hope. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one.

 

"Anyone want to share their thoughts about what it feels like to first come onto the ward?" Healer Price asked, looking around the circle. Eoin raised his hand. "Yes, Eoin?"

 

"Well," He said, in his thick Scottish brogue. "It was hard for me because I didn’t think I needed any help. Thought I was fine, just having a bit of fun. But I was ruining my relationships with my mum, my friends... and forget about romantic relationships." He paused, giving Harry a lingering look. "But I'm much better now that I've been here, really listened. I would be a much better boyfriend now."

 

Harry could have sworn he saw Eoin wink. Harry almost wanted to ask him what exactly it was that affected Eoin's relationships, but instead he merely smiled politely.

 

"Anyone else?" Healer Price prodded.

 

The patient sitting next to Draco raised her hand.

 

"Ms. Young?" Price asked inquisitively.

 

"Well--" She started. Harry glanced up for a m and moment to see her face looking back at him earnestly. "The first few days I was here was terrifying. I'm sort of used to being on my own and couldn’t admit that maybe I couldn’t deal with this alone."

 

Many members of the group nodded. Including Draco, whose nod was barely perceptible.

 

"So as scary as it was to come, I'm glad I'm here. I've really gotten a lot from this whole program... and I'm leaving this week so it's quite huge for me."

 

She looked at Harry and a flicker of unease shone in her eyes. Healer Price scanned the room, not noticing.

 

"And Mr. Malfoy?" She asked. "I saw you seeming to agree as well."

 

Draco was looking at his fingernails when Price said his name. His face was blank. There was a pause on the air before he spoke.

 

"About the only intimidating thing about this place is the mice. And, really, if you can get past that, it’s like the Hotel Ritz."

 

"That's interesting," Healer Price said nonchalantly, not looking up from her clipboard. "Just last week when you had visitors, you seemed quite intimidated."

 

Draco paled, but answered, "Not sure what you mean."

 

"You know," she said in an even tone, looking up at him. "When your mother and father came to visit."

 

"I'm sure you're mistaken." Draco tightened his lips. Healer Price scanned his balled fists.

 

"You seem a bit tense." Healer Price. "What do you think about this topic makes you tense?"

 

Draco seemed to realize himself, unclenching his hands and adjusting himself in his chair. He wiped non-existent lint from his trousers.

 

"Terribly sorry," He said. "I must not be well. If you'll excuse me."

 

Price stared at him pointedly before nodding. He promptly picked his entire body off the round, modular plastic seat and marched out of the room

 

Harry felt a pang in his chest. Draco was obviously uncomfortable, and Harry knew what that was like. For people to tear away the fragile veil of privacy and bring your deepest, most personal thoughts to light. It happened to him quite frequently. And often quite publically.

 

But something about Draco's situation really resonated in him. Harry knew Draco's parents. Narcissa had helped him in the war, but Lucius had worked hand in hand with Voldemort at every step. And while he truly did believe the Malfoys were victims of circumstance trying to survive under Voldemort's crushing influence, he knew how intimidating Lucius Malfoy could be. Though mere inches taller than Harry, Lucius always seemed to loom over him. There was something dark in his eyes, an anger, a bitterness-- a pain, perhaps? Harry could not forget how dark Malfoy senior's eyes were compared to his son. A grey so rich they were almost metallic. Harry sometimes remembered these eyes from the trials, staring at him, through him, boring a hole in his soul.

 

It was just more nightmare fodder to him at this point. His doubts about the Malfoy family. That malevolent look in Lucius Malfoy's eyes. What if he was wrong? What if Lucius reassembled the rest of Voldemort's followers? Harry was poised in a fragile tipping point; forgiveness or protection. What if he chose wrong? What if Harry could have stopped it?

 

The rest of the group moved slowly. Harry didn’t share much after his initial addition to the conversation. He was engrossed in his own thoughts, moving past Lucius and conjuring the blue-gray eyes of his son. When Harry looked at them, he saw something completely different. Draco's eyes held a haunted quality to them-- a sort of hollow pain that Harry found familiar-- when he looked in the mirror. The eyes of someone who grew up with a world on their shoulders. Who was forced to choose sides in order to survive. They were not the same people that had entered that war and Harry knew what that looked like on someone's face.

 

So lost in his thoughts, he did not notice Healer Price call the meeting to an end. He watched the other patients begin to disperse and looked up.

 

"You'll have recreation for the next hour." Healer Price said, still scrawling on her clipboard. "Then we will gather for guided meditation with Healer Anna."

 

A couple of people nodded, and others already began to get up. Harry stayed seated, not really sure what to do. He stared at the seat that Draco had occupied. He had not returned. As he watched Healer Price walk towards the door, he assumed it was to go find him. Harry looked around the room to see what it was folks did for 'recreation' around here. Eoin was walking towards a large bookcase and another older woman whose name Harry could not recall was raveling a ball of yarn. He spied Paige, who had spoken in response to his rose and thorn, beckoning him over with a deck of cards.

 

"Oy!" She called. "Over here!"

 

He walked over towards the table, pulling a chair out as he sat down. She was busily shuffling a deck of bright red cards, muggle playing cards.

 

"D'you know gin rummy?" She asked nonchalantly. Harry paused. Gin rummy? That’s what she was asking? No introductions or "you're Harry Potter!"? No invasive questions about his personal life? He paused tentatively, watching her expression. She seemed focused on finding a full deck of cards, adding cards from other decks she found.

 

_No._ Harry told himself. _Just a game of cards._

 

"Yes." He said quietly. His anxiety was still making him a bit uneasy and he was unsure of what to make of her.

 

"Good," she said, not looking up from her shuffling. She began to deal them both cards. When she finished, she put her long, brown hair in a messy ponytail and looked at her cards. She had a competitive twinkle in her eye that reminded him a bit of Ginny.

 

As Harry picked up his cards, he felt himself exhale a breath he hadn't even known he was holding.

 

\---

 

Draco flushed the toilet, picking himself up off the dingy tile floor. He leaned against the cool wall, the tip of his head grazing the metal handle jutting out of the wall. He rested his head in his palms. They were drenched in sweat, just like the rest of him. He looked like he had run a marathon. His heart had been pounding so violently he hoped maybe he could vomit it out. It would save him a lot of trouble, not having a heart.

 

Not having a heart would have made it easier to live with the embodiment of evil. To watch countless people executed, begging for mercy, calling out for their loved ones. Watching the knowing eyes of his headmaster in his final moments. His classmates, people he had sat in the same hall eating breakfast with day after day, die one after another.

 

He felt another wave of nausea ripple through him.

 

It had been years. Sure, the war had weighed heavy on them all, but the Wizarding World had moved past it, collectively. Had decided to heal together, to carry on and take on each tomorrow as it came.

 

But _how_?

 

Draco felt stuck in time. His mind and body hovering in a temporal limbo. He had never imagined a life beyond Voldemort. He assumed he would either die at his hand or die fighting for him. And after the war, he imagined he would rot in Azkaban. The giant, life shaped question was just too big for him, too overwhelming to consider. His father had groomed him to be a warrior for the Dark Lord his entire life; he was a vine raised along a trellis of fear. What did he have now? Draco knew that was not who he was, at his core, but he did not know who he _was_.

 

His father-- a chill ran through him-- had his adages about Malfoys. “A Malfoy always this” or “A Malfoy never that.” But what were Malfoys except vultures, waiting until powerful predators made their moves to come collect the scraps?

 

Except Draco himself felt like a scrap. A shred of himself. And who would come collect him? Surely not his father. Who did he have? Who could he lean on? A vine with no support, decaying faster each day.

 

He imagined if he died no one would even come to his funeral. He could feel his chest tighten as he imagined a queue of people waiting to spit on his grave. He couldn’t even blame them.

 

A gentle knock came at the door. It was unlocked, of course. Most of the doors in the ward did not lock, save Healer Price’s office.

 

"One moment." Draco said gruffly, before grabbing a piece of toilet tissue and blowing his nose surreptitiously.

 

"May I come in?" A calm, even voice questioned. Draco recognized one of the Healer's voices. Jay peeked their head in.

 

Draco didn’t make eye contact. He didn’t lift himself from the bathroom floor. Jay let themself in and took a seat on the floor next to Draco.

 

"Well," they said, looking up at the sink from their position on the floor. "There aren’t a whole lot of good spots to be alone this place, I s'pose this is good as any."

 

"Well," Draco said snarkily. "I'm not exactly alone anymore, am I?"

 

Jay paused for a moment to consider what Draco had said, then looked at Draco purposefully.

 

"No." They said finally. "You're not alone."

 

Jay grabbed another piece of toilet tissue and handed to Draco. He accepted it silently.

 

\---

 

“Cannons won the last game. 230 to 50. Gudgeon caught the snitch at half past. It was glorious.” Ron said excitedly.

 

“Brilliant.” Harry said politely. These were the types of things that Ron used to talk about at their flat. Harry couldn’t remember ever being interested, but he was sure he had been at one time. A lot of things no longer interested him. Not much of anything did, really.

 

“And they’re waiting for you to come back to the department.” He said. “I talked to Robards, and he said that the resignation letter looked fake. He knew you wouldn’t up and quit your job like that. So don’t worry about that.”

 

Harry felt a spark of irritation inside of him. What if he had wanted to quit his job as an Auror? That it was possible that Harry wanted to do something other than magical law enforcement. He tamped down the flame and nodded at Ron.

 

“Thanks, mate.” He said monotonely. Ron nodded. He looked around at the recreation room, where visits were held.

 

"Bit dreary in here, isn’t it?" Ron said after a long pause.

 

Harry shrugged. He wasn’t sure what Ron was expecting. They had never had the type of relationship where they talked about things like this. Being in the Mind Healing ward. Feelings. If he needed a laugh, Ron was there. If he needed someone to come on his latest adventure, Ron was there. But for this? Ron couldn’t be there.

 

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be there for Harry. He could tell based on the nervous folding and unfolding of Ron's hand and the fact that he had even come in. He was trying, Harry knew that. But it felt strained and unnatural. Harry wasn’t sure what to do with that. Ron had been by his side during some of the hardest moments in his life and he lived with the bloke, saw him day in and day out. And yet, in this, Harry could not look to him for support.

 

"So do you—er--" He asked. " --do you feel cured? S’it helping?"

 

Harry found this to be a dumb question. But he knew Ron was well meaning.

 

"No, Ron." He said patiently. "That's not how this works."

 

Ron shifted his weight in his seat. "Well, how does it work? What do you do in here?"

 

"Dunno." He said truthfully. "An awful lot of talking. Some art. A lot of time to just hang about."

 

"How is that helping?" Ron asked, not realizing how critical his question came off.

 

Harry stayed silent for a moment, feeling a flame of irritation ignite inside him. He had asked himself the same questions, but somehow when Ron asked them, they felt like personal attacks. Especially considering that he and Hermione had been the reason he had come in the first place.

 

"Dunno." Harry said curtly. Ron played with a loose string on his sweater nervously.

 

“When do you think you’ll get out? Don’t want to stay with the loonies to long.” Ron said, trying his hand at a joke to lighten the mood. Except he had hit a nerve. Harry tried to dampen the anger he felt inside him.

 

“Is that what you think I am?” Harry asked, the anger peeking out. “A loony?”

 

“I—what? No, Harry, that’s not what I mean at all.” He said. “You’re normal, this ward is full of nutters. I just want you to get better and come back. I didn’t mean—”

 

“Whatever.” Harry said curtly, not wanting to continue the conversation. If he didn’t try to relax he was seriously going to have a row right here in the recreation room.

 

There was a long silence between them. Some silences between them were comfortable. They had known each other since they were eleven and were living together. Silence was part of the package when you spent that much time with each other. But this silence was different. Heavy and awkward, palpable in the air between them.

 

"You know," Ron said, trying to fill the silence. "Mum has been asking about you. Wants to come see you, but they won’t let her in because she isn’t on your visitor's list."

 

Harry didn’t even remember putting names on a visitor’s list. He remembered vaguely having to write down names for emergency contacts. He wondered if that’s why Ron was able to see him. But, in truth, he wasn’t ready for visitors. And having a space for people he did not exclusively invite was a sore spot for him—he had his privacy so often invaded by “well-wishers” who were more fanatical than anything and journalists trying to catch the latest scoop about the Savior of the Wizarding World. Harry often felt helpless in the sense that he could not control the narrative. And if there was any narrative he wanted to control, it was that of his own healing. It was for him to decide who he let into that process.

 

"You told her?" Harry snapped, unable to hold back his irritation any longer.

 

Mrs. Weasley had been like a mother to him. She had fed him, clothed him and generally cared for his well-being when everyone else was merely focused on him as an instrument in the war. However, he wasn’t ready to tell her what was going on, mostly because he wasn’t quite sure what was going on himself. How could he talk about this? And how did Ron have so much to say to her about it? Talking about him without him being present. What other conversations did they have about him when he wasn’t around? With the rest of the Weasleys? With Robards?

 

"Mate, she's worried." Ron said apprehensively. "We all are."

 

"I'm fine!" Harry said, louder than he had intended. He wasn’t fine. He knew this. He was in the ward. And he couldn't even trust his own friends to keep it a secret. What else were they plotting? Were they even ever really friends? Harry's mind began to race, and he just needed to move, to go away.

 

"I think it's time for you to go." Harry said icily. He got up and strode to the door, leaving a gaping Ron in his wake.

 

\--

 

“Healer Granger?” 

 

Hermione had been finishing up the last of the reports for the Skelegrow incident when she heard Morgan’s tentative voice. Engrossed in her work, she responded without looking up from her paper.

 

“Yes, Morgan?”

 

“I—err—I wanted to let you know that the Witch Weekly has written a story mentioning you—” Hermione looked up. “Since we don’t get copies at the office, I brought mine from home, I thought you might want to—”

 

Hermione would later chastise herself for the way she got up and grabbed the paper from the girl. However, Morgan seemed to understand Hermione’s frantic energy and let her open the publication herself. Hermione’s blood boiled hotter and hotter every word she read.

 

_Harry Potter in Critical Condition at St. Mungo’s_

_Wizarding World Savior sustained injuries of an unknown variety, landing him at Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Although Witch Weekly cannot report on the exact nature of his injuries, sources close to Potter say that he is in critical condition. Based on public records, Witch Weekly has determined that he was admitted three days ago and has ruled out the following maladies based on departmental records: Artifact Accidents, Creature related Incidents and Magical Bugs._

_When interviewed, Harry Potter’s long-time best friend Hermione Granger was distraught and despondent. As a Potions Research Manager, she is close to the situation and likely working with Healers to ensure that the Boy Who Lived will get better soon._

_Witch Weekly will continue to report as the story develops. Stay tuned!_

 

“Critical condition!?” Hermione fumed. “ _Distraught and despondent_?”

 

Morgan stayed silent, letting Hermione react to the article.

 

“All I told them was to mind their bloody business!” She seethed.

 

It truly angered Hermione how easy it was to look up departmental records for patients. Not only for Harry’s case, but for all patients. In the muggle world, there was a lot of privacy for medical histories. However, the Wizarding World had so many unnamed injured persons that they maintained a public record. Hermione understood why it existed, yet at the same time it could be exploited in cases like this. It was merely by luck that they were unable to find Harry’s name in the Mind Healing Department records, likely because of some type of bureaucracy holding up his admission in the records. However, it was only a matter of time before they discovered the nature of his stay. And how would people explain the circumstances that had landed him there?

 

Truthfully, Hermione was still trying to parse through the situation herself. She laid awake a night wondering to herself whether Harry had tried to take his own life. It was common knowledge that too many Dreamless Sleep Draughts could cause death. Was it intentional? Was he not thinking straight? He hadn’t been himself, but she couldn’t imagine him doing that.

 

However, she couldn’t imagine a lot of the things Harry had gone through. Hell, he had _already_ died. And come back to life. He knew what it was like. Maybe it wasn’t so scary. Maybe it was better than what he was feeling down here. But Hermione felt like he wasn’t in the right state of mind to make that decision himself… he was clearly depressed. Or something. She hadn’t parsed out the details entirely.

 

And how could she? With the strain of a possible promotion, a stack of backed up paperwork and now this trifling Witch Weekly article? When would the pressure relent?

 

Hermione felt something compress her insides, and before she knew it, she had tears in her eyes. She felt this insurmountable pressure and, more than anything, true and genuine worry for her best friend. Frankly, she had not let herself entertain the possibility of what would have happened if she and Ron had not brought him to St. Mungo’s.

 

She entertained it now as tears streamed from her eyes. She had been fighting alongside Harry since she was 11. She erased all memories of herself from her parents’ minds. She had stood on the battlefield opposite Voldemort himself with irresolute courage. And she was crying _now_?

 

Morgan sat next to her and placed a consoling hand on her shoulder. Hermione, too upset to care what she looked like, leaned into the younger girl’s shoulder and sobbed quietly in the middle of her office.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This work is cross posted on ff.net and Wattpad. Please leave critiques & suggestions. I have a general outline of where I want to go with this, but I am open to suggestions! 
> 
> KUDOS AND COMMENTS SUSTAIN ME!! in my darkest hours of writer's block, they give me strength, so please leave them :)


End file.
